SPN-Fanfiction - The trouble with pranks
by spnfanfromeurope
Summary: Preseries. This belong in my series of stories in which John is *not* a drunken, abusive (biip), and as such it doesn't go all dark and angsty. Warnings: parental disciplinary spankings of teens, with a belt. Some swearing. Non-graphic, non-detailed mention of someone with no pants on. No spoilers, no smut. I own nothing, I just play with the toys of those more brilliant than me.


He was going to put them in his brother's locker. It would be the perfect prank.  
When Dean's latest fling saw the skin mags come tumbling out, she would throw a fit, a nice loud, satisfying fit, right there in the middle of the hallway.  
He'd found the pile of old, crumbly, crusty mags in a drawer in the last motel they'd stayed at and had carefully secreted them away for just such an epic opportunity as this.

What he hadn't calculated with was that mouth-breather O'Brian, who'd stuck out a foot, making him take a nosedive.  
Training had kept Sam from face-planting, but not from spilling the entire contents of his bag out over the hall floor. Everything. He was still frozen on his knees, surveying the aftermath of the pictorial avalanche of scantily-clad females – and males, those mags had catered to several tastes - when he felt a large hand wrap itself around his upper arm, hauling him to his feet.  
Other teachers came rushing through the gaping, giggling crowd to hastily gather the offending items.  
His English teacher, the nice, and pretty, Miss Larrigan sent him a withering look of disappointment before she started stuffing his legitimate school items back into his bag.  
As he was dragged backwards away from the scene, trying to avoid meeting anyone's eyes, he had a glimpse of his brother, who stood a bit to the side, staring at him as if he had grown an extra head. Sam was turning around trying to find his balance, when his final glimpse of Dean's face showed him the dawning understanding in his brother's eyes. Sam let his head hang and scrambled to keep up with the long strides of the PE teacher headed towards the principal's office, and doomsday.

The principal hung up the phone with a sinister click. He looked coldly at Sam.  
"I'd understood from your teachers that you were doing very well in classes, and I'm extremely disappointed in this blatant disregard for not only the school's rules but normal decent behavior. Your father is on his way to pick you up. You can wait in the secretary's office."

It only took his dad 15 minutes to get there, but it felt more like 15 years, and Sam's stomach was in knots, when the door opened to the well-known silhouette of John Winchester.

The meeting with the principal was short and to the point. The two men shook hands, and the principal gave a short, emotionless, and to be fair, completely true, account of why John had been called to pick up his youngest son, then turned to Sam saying:  
"Well, then. You have a 4-day suspension, which will go on your permanent record, and you will spend those days doing not only the assignments your teachers will give you, but also an essay on why it is important to keep the school environment clean and safe from the filth of the world. You will also write an apology to each and every one of your teachers, and to me, personally, for bringing those things onto school grounds. Your homework will be left for you at the secretary's desk, your brother can bring it home for you. I'll see you on Monday."

The principal stood up, indicating that the meeting was over. He shook John's hand, and the two men nodded at each other.  
John was turning towards Sam when there was a perfunctory knock on the door, and Dean stepped in.  
He swallowed hard, when he saw his Dad, but then half turned to Sam with a quick wink that none of the adults saw.  
Dean stepped determinedly up to the principal's desk and straightened up, into the "soldier on parade" stance he always used when facing something unpleasant. Dad expected that. Stand tall, face your problems. And what Dad wanted, Dean gave, to the best of his abilities. Now he looked the principal straight in the eye and said firmly.  
"I'm sorry, Sir," he looked at his dad, "Sorry Sir", back at the principal, "but Sam had nothing to do with this. I hid those mags in his bag. I apologize."

The principal blinked. From what he'd heard the teachers say about these two boys, this story seemed more likely than the younger brother bringing the magazines onto school ground, but he hadn't expected Dean, Dean of the leather jacket, lazy attitude, sassy tongue and smug grin, to so blankly admit to being the perpetrator.  
Feeling caught on the wrong foot, which he did not appreciate after 30 years of working with kids of all sorts, he asked the only question, he could think of:  
"Why?"  
"It was a prank, Sir. Sorry. I took it too far."

Dean felt his dad stiffen slightly at this. Only two days ago, after The Incident™ John had made it quite clear that he would tolerate no more shenanigans.  
The pranking stopped right here, right now, or else…. He hadn't expanded on the "or else," but both brothers knew what he meant. Dad didn't spank often, but his belt had been known to come off on occasion.  
This was definitely going to count as one of those occasions, since The Incident ™ had involved John himself in a quite spectacular - and personal - way.

John had come home from his latest hunt a day earlier than expected. He'd only been gone a handful of days this time, just long enough that the prank-war between his sons had been able to skip jauntily along with no brakes applied.  
He dumped his duffel on the floor and headed straight for the bathroom. They heard the toilet seat slam down and Sam jumped to his feet, suddenly pale.  
"Oh, shit," he whispered, looking at Dean with big eyes.  
"What?"  
"I didn't know he'd be back today."  
"What!?"  
Dean was starting to sound more concerned than annoyed.  
Sam stuttered it out:  
"I covered the toilet seat with Vaseline earlier."  
Dean's mouth fell open, then he shouted "Dad, wait!" and rushed for the bathroom door.  
He barged right in, just in time to give both brothers a front-row view of John Winchester, trousers around his ankles, doing a spectacular, but not very elegant, slip and slide onto the floor landing flat on his back, feet in the air, unfortunately also giving the boys a visual that they had neither needed nor wanted to ever see.

Like two puppets on a string, their heads turned towards each other, big eyes in white faces met, for the first time since the whole pranking thing had started up in perfect harmony with each other.  
"Run?" Sam suggested.  
"Run," Dean agreed.  
And they sprinted for the front-door.  
When they snuck back in a couple of hours later, John was at the table with a newspaper and a beer.  
He looked up and with a kind of tense, but calm, certainty informed them that the prank-war had now been officially brought to a stop.  
They "Yessirred" and counted themselves lucky.

Dad's hand landed heavily on Dean's shoulder, jerking his wandering mind back to the room. Dad was assuring the principal that he would take matters in hand and that the principal could be absolutely sure that there would be no further incidents like this one.  
In the background, Dean heard Sam's breath stutter, and fervently wished the kid would keep his trap shut. If he started yammering now, everything would just go hay-wire even worse. Sam seemed to get it, though, as he kept silent.

Now the principal was talking, again, and Dean quickly shifted his attention back to the man, trying to look polite as the stiff-necked boring old sod rambled on about decency, applying oneself, the sanctity of the school's something or other and yadda yadda yadda.  
Dean yes-sirred a bit to keep Dad and the old fart happy.  
He solemnly promised to write some sort of lame essay, which he had no intention of doing since they would probably pull up stakes and move before his suspension was over anyway. Wonder how long he would get out of… oh, 6 days. Cool.  
If only Dad hadn't been hovering behind his shoulder quietly fuming, Dean would have been perfectly happy with the situation, unplanned vacation included, and who the hell cared about their "permanent record" anyway… Well, except nerdy little brothers of course…

The principal was winding down, so Dean did some more "Yes, Sirring" and "No, Sirring" before he shook hands with the man and once again managed to apologize for the trouble without letting out the snigger he felt in his throat. Dad's presence did have a wonderful effect on a young man's self-control about things like that.

When they left the office, John headed straight for the parking lot without even looking at either of them. They followed some steps behind. Dean felt Sam staring at him as they walked.  
"What?" he hissed.  
"Why, Dean?"  
"You heard him, Sam, permanent record. Mine doesn't matter."  
Dean didn't add "yours do" but the words hang between them anyway.  
"But Dad…"  
Dean just shrugged. He'd take the fall for this one, it didn't matter, he'd taken knocks before, he could take some again. It was better than the alternative anyway.  
Just another kind of taking care of Sammy, but he couldn't tell his brother that, not yet. It would be some years in the future before he put it in words to Sam. That whole thing about his mission in life, about the need to keep his brother safe.

When they got back to the motel, John told Sam to go take a shower or something, while he and Dean had a little talk.  
Sam glanced at Dean, who gave him a slight nod of encouragement, wordlessly saying:  
"Go on, it'll be alright."

Snakes of guilt was writhing in Sam's stomach as he closed the bathroom door and turned the shower on, hoping to drown out the worst of the sounds from the main room.  
He wanted nothing as much as going back in there, to stop Dad, tell him that the whole thing was his fault, not Dean's.  
But one thing was sure: John Winchester did _not_ like his sons lying to him.  
Lying to everyone else was fine, on a hunt it was even encouraged, but not to him. If Sam confessed now, he would land Dean in even hotter water, since Dad had seemed more exasperated than truly angry. Finding out that Dean had lied would doubtlessly tip the scales over to angry, and they would both get it, for the prank as well as for the lying. There was nothing to do now but to see it through.

John stared silently at his son for a bit. Then he shook his head.  
"Ferchrissake, Dean. Skin mags? In a school? What the hell were you thinking?"  
"I was out of line, Sir, I'm sorry."  
"Not leaving me much choice here, are you?"  
"No, Sir, sorry, Sir. I know."  
"I warned you guys just the other day."  
"Yes, Sir."  
John shook his head again, and began to remove his belt.  
"Ok, then, drop them and put your hands on the table."  
Dean took a deep breath, turned to the rickety dinner table, undid his jeans, pushed them to his knees, and put his hands on the worn plastic surface.  
Dad patted his back and said: "10, Dean."  
Dean's head jerked up and he glanced over his shoulder. Dad never gave them a number, he just spanked until he thought the job was done. 10 was definitely on the lenient side of that particular equation, since Dad was a firm believer in the old saying about a job worth doing...

As Dad raised his arm, Dean caught a glimpse of something he could swear was amusement in his dad's eyes, but then the belt landed and broke his train of thoughts.  
He counted along in his head as the belt lashed across his ass, taking some comfort in the knowledge of how far he still had to go. John kept the belt dancing quickly, each stroke bringing Dean up on his toes, air hissing out between his clenched teeth. It wasn't the worst whipping, he'd had, far from it, but when he got to the tenth, he was panting, and had sweat dripping from his forehead.  
The old man had a helluva good aim, each lash had landed squarely across his ass, making that whole area throb rhythmically.

Dad dropped the belt on the table, patting Dean's back and Dean pushed himself upright, pulling his jeans up with one hand as he did.  
The hand Dad put on his shoulder wasn't rough this time, just warm.  
John shook Dean's shoulder a little and started to say something.  
Dean was never to know, what his Dad had tried to say, because at that moment, their interaction was interrupted by a loud, agonized yowl from the bathroom. They both turned towards the sound, and sprinted for the door, one of Dad's hand going for the gun at the small of his back, the other pushing Dean behind him.

Dad burst through the door and it slammed shut before Dean could follow.  
Seconds later Dad was back out again, gun no longer in his hand, instead he was holding… ooooh shit… Dean started to back away, still holding his jeans up with one hand. Dad followed him, no, he s _talked_ him, there was no other word for it. Dad s _talked_ closer, waving the bottle in Dean's face.  
"Nair? Really? Nair? Now?"  
"I forgot, Dad, I swear."  
"When? When did you put it in his shampoo-bottle?"  
Dean gulped. But there was nothing for it but to answer honestly.  
"Yesterday."

John sighed and leaned a little backwards, looking up as if he was silently asking the heavens what on earth he'd done to deserve this.  
Then he grabbed Dean's shoulder, less gently this time, turned him and pushed him right back over the table.  
Dean landed on hands and elbows, jeans sliding to his knees as he lost his grip on them.

He squeezed his eyes shut at the jingle of the belt being lifted from the table and pressed his face into his biceps as the first stroke landed.  
Dad was aiming lower this time, sparing his ass from a double-dose that would have left welts or bruises, but it was a cold comfort, as it only meant that the under-curve of his ass and the top of his thighs took the brunt of the new assault. It hurt. A lot. That thin-skinned area was always the worst, and Dean knew he was going to feel this belting every time he sat down for a while.  
He yelped and wriggled his way through the series of brisk strokes descending in a rapid-fire pattern that left him gasping like a fish on land, when Dad finally stopped and patted his back before stepping back to thread his belt through it's loops and give his son time to collect himself.  
Dean stood back up shakily and tenderly rubbed his burning backside.

He tentatively looked up to meet his dad's eyes, but John just sighed, and shook his head. Then he clapped Dean on the shoulder, pulled him into a half-hug, patted his hair and turned, heading out the door. Relief flooded through Dean. Sam was safe, the ass-kicking was over, and Dad had forgiven him.

Dean was fastening his own belt when Sam, dressed in just a pair of sweat-pants, came out of the bathroom. He started to say something, but then Dean looked up and got a good look at the effects of his latest prank.  
He let out a snort of laughter at the sight of his little brother:  
"Oh, wow Sammy, now you really _are_ an egghead in every way!"

Sam bellowed in incoherent rage and barreled through the room in two long jumps, throwing himself at his brother's midsection with all his weight, fists pumping as both boys tumbled to the ground.

Dean yelped in surprise and pain. He had landed straight on his already sore ass and Sam was pummeling his ribs and stomach, moving so quickly that even before they met the ground Dean was half out of breath, feeling like one of those speed-punching balls.

He rolled to get his brother dislodged, punching Sam in the ribs as he did so, and the fight was on.  
The brothers rolled to and fro across the floor.

The old dinner-table with the worn plastic surface toppled and broke when Dean's back hit one of its steel legs.

Sam had a bloody nose, and Dean had the beginning of a black eye when they hit the coffee table, Sam momentarily on top again.  
The entire table jiggled and the ugly glass vase some former motel "decorator" had decided would fit in the room overbalanced, and rolled to the edge – Dean, flat on his back, saw it leave the edge just in time to toss Sam out of the way, but not in time to do more than to start turning his own head away – and the glass vase hit him, splitting his eyebrow before rolling to a stop under the couch. Where it would stay for more than 10 weeks, the maid service at the motel not exactly being of the most enthusiastic kind.

From the safety under the couch the vase witnessed the younger brother launch himself back on top of his big brother, determined to get in some solid retaliation for his lost hair while he had the chance.  
Dean rolled with him again, and the tussle moved dangerously close to the TV on its stand in the corner.

When John opened the door after having walked around the building, clearing his mind, and getting a cap from the back of his car to cover his younger son's almost hairless head, he was met with what at first glance looked like carnage.

Head wounds bleed a ridiculous amount of blood. Both boys seemed at first to be covered in enough blood to keep a family of vampires happy for a week.

With a roar, John grabbed his boys, trying in vain to pull them off each other. He almost fell but regained his balance.  
A booted foot slammed into his thigh, making him grunt in pain, and he felt the tattered remains of his self-control give way to his rather formidable temper.  
"STAND DOWN! Dammit. Stand down! Stop it!"

John finally got a decent hold on each boy and tore them apart, holding them at arm's length. He had Sam by the upper arm, struggling and kicking, and Dean by the collar of his shirt, the soft, well-worn, cotton fabric bunched up and his fist pressing up under the young man's bony jaw.

"I said: STAND DOWN."  
He shook both of his errant offspring as hard as he could with the insufficient holds he had on them.  
Dean froze, standing stiffly, head tilted uncomfortably backwards and to the side.  
Sam stopped kicking and stood still.  
John cautiously let go of his kids, so he could inspect the damage.  
Sam's nose had already stopped bleeding, and Dean's eyebrow had stopped leaking, it was a shallow wound, and it was starting to clot over.  
Certain now that no one was seriously hurt, John felt his jaw muscle bunch up as his teeth ground together. He reached for Dean first.

Dean lost his balance when Dad grabbed him, pulled and turned, unceremoniously dumping him over the back of the couch, sore ribs creaking as he landed with a "woof" of air getting knocked out of lungs.  
Half a moment later, his brother landed next to him with a yip of surprise.

They heard the ominous sound of a belt getting unbuckled and Dean groaned.  
Three ass kickings in one day? That had to be some kind of record. He might never be able to sit again.

"Drop them."  
The patented John Winchester's growl brooked no arguments, and his boys obeyed immediately.

As they bent back over, their eyes met.  
Sammy's eyes were big and scared, and Dean reacted instinctively, reaching out to grab his little brother's hand. Sam lashed on gratefully and closed his eyes as the first snap of the belt sheared through the air.

John moved from boy to boy rapidly, anger giving way to annoyance. He just wanted this godawful day to end. Get this over with, get dinner, and a beer. He deserved a damn beer after the day he'd had.

With his right arm pulled awkwardly to the side, his hand squeezed by Sam, who had his forehead pressed against the back of Dean's hand, Dean chose to pull his left arm across himself, grabbing onto his own right shoulder and tucking his face into the crook of his left elbow.

Once again, Dad spared him from getting the belt on already red and tender skin, this time aiming for the middle of the thighs.  
Dean had never been belted across the thighs before, and it was not an experience he was keen to have ever again.  
He sobbed quietly into his elbow, his legs shaking under him.  
He dimly realized that Dad was only giving him one lash of the belt for each two he was giving Sam, but he didn't think Sammy noticed, as he was busy dancing in place, crying hard. Dean slid a little sideways and pressed his shoulder against Sam's. The pressure was returned, and the joined hands clutched together a little harder.

Then, finally, John patted them both on their backs, and, as they gingerly stood, pulled them into a hug.  
"Stop, boys, ok? No more. Please. It stops here, ya hear me?"  
"Yes Dad."  
"Yes Sir."  
"Good."  
John pushed his boys out at arm's length.  
"I mean it. No more pranking, no more fighting. Just. Stop."  
The duet of "Yes Sir's" seemed to satisfy Dad, who nodded and stepped back.

"Dean go take a shower, get a band-aid on that eyebrow, then lie down and put some ice on your eye. Sam go wash the blood of yourself, put a cold compress on your nose and I'll go get some pizza or something for dinner… and yes, you can both stand while you eat, if you want to."

Dean groaned, "Want to? I don't think I'll ever sit again."  
John grinned at him, "You'll be fine, tomorrow you'll be able to sit just fine."  
Dean shook his head sorrowfully, "After a triple turn? No way," he tenderly patted at his aching ass, but Dad just grinned at him.  
"Trust me on this, I'm talking from experience…"  
And with that, John turned away leaving his sons slack jawed, gaping after him.

As he opened the front door hoping that this time, he wouldn't come back to yet another calamity, he heard his eldest son call out to him plaintively:  
"Dad? Can we get some pie?"  
Struggling in vain to smother a smile at the resilience of youth, John nodded and closed the door.


End file.
